Only the Beginning
by Mingsmommy
Summary: Previously posted on cmexchange at LJ for severity softly. Prompt: AU. Emily, still in her waitressing days, is working in a diner. Dave, in his early days at the BAU, comes in and is instantly attracted to her. She has never heard of him.


**Rating:** FRT/PG13 (a few naughty words)  
**Warnings/spoilers:** Spoilers up to current season, to be safe.  
**Summary/prompt:** _Rossi/Prentiss - AU. Emily, still in her waitressing days, is working in a diner. Dave, in his early days at the BAU, comes in and is instantly attracted to her. She has never heard of him. He tries to sweep her off her feet. She resists, so he starts frequenting the diner, trying to wear her down. Eventually it works. I would actually prefer no outright smut here, but a few steamy kisses would be lovely. :)_  
**A/N:** Even though this is AU there are spoilers for 4x17, Demonology. Actually, some of the dialogue was completely ripped off from that episode.

The author would like to thank **smacky30** who is a saint and a goddess and a rock star.

Previously posted at **cm_exchange on Live Journal  
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"A little young for you, doncha think?" Max's voice is dry, but his eyes are sparkling.

"I'm just looking." Dave holds his hands up defensively just as the bell over the diner's door tinkles indicating the arrival or departure of another customer. Calling it a diner might really be pushing it. He tends to think of diners as greasy spoons, but Rocky's is more a vision of a diner, a fantasy of the perfect diner. The black and white tile floors are polished to a shine, spotless red booths line the walls and black topped tables dot the floor and everything is set off by gleaming chrome accents. The prices are certainly not greasy spoon prices, though to be fair, they're not outrageous either. Everything about the place says _class_, including the leggy waitress dressed in black pants, white tuxedo shirt and red tie. "Nothing wrong with looking, right?"

Max answers with a chuckle, Gideon never looks up from his fierce concentration on the menu and Hotch (Dave is making a real effort to stop thinking of him as "The Kid") cracks a small smile without ever having seen the young woman in question. Dave supposes the small knowing smile is a product of his reputation for being the office Lothario; a title which he isn't sure he deserves. Despite one ill-considered fling with a field agent and another even more ill-considered romp with the assistant to the deputy director (even if the romp happened in said deputy director's office during a Christmas party a couple of years ago), he fails to see why he still carries the moniker. He's a healthy male for God's sake, and thirty-eight isn't anywhere near dead. He's been single for going on three years now, and it's not like the job ever gives him the opportunity to do more than have a date or two before the object of his interest gets tired of him breaking dates and being gone for weeks at a time. All the same things that broke up this last marriage, the same things that made him decide maybe long term relationships just aren't his style.

So, he looks. Maybe sometimes he does more than look, when the object of his perusal is willing and understands the score. But he wonders how he got to be this guy, the one all the guys want to catch a ball game and a beer with but wouldn't dream of introducing to their sister. It doesn't hurt and he sure as Hell understands, but sometimes when he's staring at the bottom of a glass deciding if he's going to take the barmaid up on her invitation at closing time, he wonders.

His thoughts scatter as the waitress approaches their table with four waters and the view is even better up close. She is young, but not quite as young as he'd first thought; early to mid-twenties, which was still too young for him, but he's _just looking_ he reminds himself. Her hair is dark, sleek and smooth, held back with a tortoise shell clip and he wishes for a moment it was free so he could see how it falls across her shoulders, down her back. Then she turns her head and he catches sight of the line of her neck, and he's glad that isn't covered up at all. He wishes he could say the same for her legs, which, no thanks to the view provided from the innocuous black trousers that make up half of her uniform, appear to go on for miles. Her skin is fair and her eyes are dark, though, he thinks, she should maybe use a lighter hand with the eyeliner.

The water glasses make it to the table with a little bit of sloshing, but nobody gets hit. The waitress catches his eye and smiles, obviously a little embarrassed as she blots at the small puddle with a napkin. _Very pretty,_ Rossi thinks, and wonders if he's approaching dirty old man territory as the young woman glances around the table. She stops blotting abruptly, eyes going wide, mouth rounding in surprise.

"Agent Hotchner?"

The Kid starts and looks up, blinking. Rossi sees him scrambling for a name, watches him catch the mental thread and hang on. "Emily. Hi."

"Wow. I never thought I'd actually see anyone I know here." Her voice is husky and light at the same time, as though she might be permanently on the edge of a giggle. Then her face and her voice change. "Oh, God, my mother didn't send you to check up on me, did she?"

Hotch shakes his head and manages a smile. "No. No, I don't even do security details anymore." He quirks an eyebrow. "And the last I heard, you were at Brown."

The waitress, _Emily,_ Dave's brain whispers, tilts her head and gives Hotch a polite smile. "Yale, actually. I'm in grad school at Georgetown now."

Gideon, Dave notices, has lowered his menu and is studying the interaction between The Kid, _Hotch_, Rossi corrects himself, and the Yale graduate, Georgetown grad student, waitress named Emily. "What are you studying?" Jason asks.

Dark eyes turn to look at Gideon. "Psychology."

He nods. "It's a good program."

"I'm sorry," Hotch says and begins introductions. "Emily Prentiss." His hand moves around the table, an indicator to associate names with a face. "Jason Gideon. David Rossi. Max Ryan."

Emily's eyes get the wide, round look again and she breathes out. "_The_ Max Ryan? The agent that started the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico?"

Max's eyebrows go up and Rossi swears he sees Gideon bite down on a smile. Usually it's Rossi's name that brings about the rockstar reaction.

Max waves a hand. "I was one of them. Dave there had more to do with it than I did."

Emily gives him a quick, polite smile and shifts her gaze back to Max. "I read your paper on Dahmer at Yale. I was really impressed with your interviews with him."

Max slides a grin Rossi's way, then looks back at the eager Emily. "That stuff is a little heavy on logistics for a psych class."

She shakes her head. "My degree is in Criminal Justice." Blushing a little she looks down, then back up. "You did a guest lecture my sophomore year. I've actually been thinking about the Bureau since."

Dave realizes he is not only a dirty old man, but also a sore loser when he crosses his arms over his chest, but the knowledge doesn't stop him from asking, "Can we have the Max Ryan fan club meeting some other time? I'd like to eat tonight."

Her light blush goes to a full on flush and she stammers. "I...I'm sorry."

"Yeah?" He cocks an eyebrow at her. "Well, I'm hungry."

Max looks like he's just short of quietly busting a gut and Gideon gives Rossi a look of reproach. Dave had been on the verge of feeling like a heel, but Gideon's look makes him tighten his jaw. Hotch, thank God, jumps in right away. "What do you recommend, Emily?"

After a few exchanges debating the merits of meatloaf and mash potatoes versus pork tenderloin Hotch gets the meatloaf, Max gets the tenderloin, Gideon orders breakfast (two eggs over-easy, corned beef hash, whole wheat toast) and Dave gets a burger and fries. The waitress manages to write it all down quickly with a minimum of questions, and seems very deliberate in not making eye contact with him again.

She scoots away from the table, but is back in just a few minutes with their drinks: hot tea for Gideon and coffee for the other three. Then, she slips away again to take the order of a table of high school students who have come through the door shedding coats and chattering about the sightseeing they've done today.

When Emily is busy with the high school kids, Max turns to Hotch. "From your early days of vetting security details? Whose daughter?"

Hotch nods, blows across the top of his coffee and supplies, "Ambassador Prentiss." Then blows again and takes a sip.

Max whistles. "That's a pretty high powered politician for their kid to be working at a diner."

Putting his cup down, Hotch opens his hands in a gesture that's somewhere between _Hell if I know_ and _considering the skeletons, it's not a surprise_. "Emily was always rather independent. If I'm remembering the right file, she was rather adept at ditching her security detail."

This appears to delight Max who lets out a bark of laughter, and despite his slightly bruised ego, it makes Rossi snort out a small laugh, as well. Even Gideon is wearing a small smile as Hotch continues. "It was long before the Ambassador's security was my responsibility. By the time I got the assignment Emily was on her way back to the States and security, for her at least, was cursory. Not sure how well I would have handled a wayward teenager."

Max laughs, "If Haley has anything to say about it, you'll be handling a few."

Hotch doesn't flush but still manages to look both slightly embarrassed and a little lovesick at the mention of his fiancée.

"I doubt any children Hotch has will be wayward at any time," Gideon says dryly.

Rossi can imagine it, babies born with neatly knotted ties already in place. He worries about The Kid being a little uptight. He's good at the job, but he's so serious Dave's afraid doing this job for any length of time is going to turn him into someone who never smiles. It's one of the reason's he always tries to get Hotch to go with them when they go out after a case, whether it's to a bar to blow off steam after a rough case or out for a bite after too much paperwork, like tonight. He likes to see The Kid loosen up a little, smile, look forward to the future, talk about his girl or football or the wayward daughters of Ambassadors.

Dave tries to recall the Ambassador's face from the last time he'd seen her on _60 Minutes_. There is definitely a resemblance...fair skin, dark hair, dark eyes, good bone structure. Yale and Georgetown. Well, Emily the Ambassador's daughter is obviously no slouch in the brains department. But why is she waiting tables? He's willing to bet there's a trust fund or two with her name on it. He does admit to a certain reverse snobbery that makes him like Emily Prentiss beyond her looks if she's not living on family money.

"Get over it, Dave," Max says good-naturedly, bringing him back to the discussion. "You can't be the superstar every time."

That earns a snicker from Gideon and a glare from Rossi. The choice to put Dave front and center as the face of the BAU had been Max's, and they both know it. Rossi has never denied he has an ego, but it gets its care and feeding in plenty of places. "There's nothing to get over," he says and even to his ears it sounds like he's snapping. So, he modulates his tone and repeats, "There's nothing to get over."

"Really?" Max asks dubiously.

"Maybe you should tell your expression." Gideon appears to be concentrating on the color of his _Earl Grey_ as he dunks his teabag (dunk, pause, raise, pause, dunk, pause, raise) into the cup of hot water Emily had delivered to the table. "You keep glowering at the young lady."

Dave likes Gideon, he does. At the very least he admires his mind, his ethics and his commitment to the victims. But all of that doesn't stop Dave from wanting to pop him in the mouth sometimes. _Self-righteous son-of-a-bitch_, Rossi thinks. "I wasn't glowering," he growls. "I was just wondering why the daughter of such a prestigious and wealthy family would be waiting tables."

Hotch shrugs. "Like I said, she's independent. I walked in on the tail end of a fight between her and her mother one time. Something about her mother getting the Secretary of State to write a recommendation for Emily without Emily's knowledge." He gives a smile that Dave is sure is a suppression of a laugh. "Let's just say, it's a good thing the Ambassador never had to negotiate a peace deal with her daughter."

Max shudders. "God, why do you think I told Dave it was a good idea to start the BAU and do all of the traveling? It's the only thing that got me through Maggie's teenage years. I'm still surprised Carol didn't kill her."

Emily approaches then with a food laden tray, and places everyone's order in front of them. She smiles, but doesn't meet Dave's eyes, though she doesn't seem to have that problem with anyone else. He sighs inwardly. He really needs to learn not to be such a dick. _Big tip,_ he tells himself and asks for some spicy mustard.

The food is surprisingly good and the conversation moves from their waitress to the case that came across this afternoon. They debate the merits of phone consults versus a trip to Manhattan, Kansas, and if the trip is warranted, how many of them should go and who it should be.

Dave slips a twenty under his plate before they leave and doesn't think too much more about it.

Until Monday morning anyway, when the first thing Max says to him is, "Hey, Rossi. Terrorize any more young waitresses over the weekend?"

Dave glares. "I wasn't that bad."

"You were pretty rough on her," Gideon says, not looking up from the file he's studying.

Making a dismissive snorting sound, Dave heads for the coffee pot. "I left her a big tip."

"Uh-huh." Jason takes a handful of murder scene photos out of the file and fans them across his desk. "Because money is a good substitute for human decency."

Rossi makes a face as he dumps sugar into his coffee. Gideon has shown, on more than one occasion, a complete disregard for civility and socially acceptable behavior, so Dave doesn't really feel he has much room to judge. Plus he suspects Jason is just needling him; it's one of his favorite activities lately.

But when Dave sees The Kid looking at him with a solemn, evaluating expression, he decides maybe he shouldn't have let his ego out on Friday night. One of the requirements of starting and being a part of this unit is a relentless commitment to self-awareness, so when he sits at his desk and opens the file on top of the stack, his attention to it is cursory at best.

Yes, he'd found the young woman attractive. Extremely. And, yeah, maybe if things had been different he would have been charming and maybe he would have stayed after the others left and been _extra_ charming. Maybe he would have walked away with her number, maybe he would have walked away with _her_. And, yeah, the cooing over Max was a little aggravating. If she'd flirted with Hotch he would probably have understood, but her reaction to Max without even knowing who Rossi was, yeah, okay, that tweaked his pride. And, damnit, Okay, he was an ass.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath.

"Something wrong?" Gideon looks across at him, eyes at half mast, half smile on his face.

_Smug bastard,_ Dave thinks. But all he says is, "Picked up the wrong file."

The other man doesn't answer, just raises his eyebrows and goes back to his own file.

It's dark when they leave for the day; three phone conferences with the locals in Kansas have made it a long day, but they think they're a little closer to some answers. Max speeds out the door, almost late for his mother-in-law's birthday dinner. Hotch isn't far behind, trying to make the appointment he and Haley have with yet another caterer for their wedding. Slowly, Dave puts on his jacket and eyes Gideon. "Staying late?"

Gideon looks up, the same photos from the morning in a different configuration. "Stephen's class is on an overnight field trip. Rachel went along as a chaperone. Thought I'd review some cases."

Dave nods. He suspects Rachel and Stephen are on more than an overnight field trip since Gideon's nights at the office have been occurring with increasing frequency, but it's not his business. He also understands how the ghosts from some files get in your head and stay there, how the voices in your head can drown out the voices in your home until the real voices don't care to compete any more. But all he says is, "Good idea."

Then he heads for the door.

He's not aware of it as a conscious decision, but when he ends up in the diner's parking lot it's with a mild sense of resignation. Only a few tables are occupied, and he seats himself at the same booth he and the others had occupied Friday night. This time the server isn't Emily the Ambassador's daughter but a young man who introduces himself as Hector. Dave politely listens to the evening's specials then orders a BLT with a side of the homemade vegetable soup instead of fries. He watches the patrons and staff as he waits on his food; there's another server, a friendly older woman with over-processed hair and a teenage boy with a severe case of acne acting as a busboy. Other than the kitchen staff, that appears to be the extent of the people working at the diner.

As Hector refills his coffee, Dave clears his throat. "I was in here Friday night and there was a waitress named Emily. Is she here tonight?" He's pretty sure he already knows the answer, but maybe she's in the back somewhere.

"Nah," Hector says, pulling back the coffee carafe. "She only works the weekends." He looks at Dave assessingly. "You a friend of hers?"

Dave lifts his coffee cup. "A friend of a friend, actually."

"Try back on Friday."

A BLT is hard to fuck up so he's not surprised it's good, but the vegetable soup is nothing short of amazing, could rival his Nonna's, though he'd never say that out loud. The broth is rich and savory; the vegetables are crisp and remain distinct while still carrying the flavor of the soup. So, when he decides to go back on Friday, it's not just because he needs to apologize to a pretty girl for being an arrogant asshole. You can't find soup that good just anywhere.

He accepts a menu from the cashier and sits in the same booth as on his previous two visits. Perusing the menu, he tries to decide what the chances of the lasagna being decent are. Soup is one thing, but lasagna...

A cup rattles in the saucer as it hits the table. "David Anthony Rossi," Emily says, pouring coffee into the cup. "The Bureau recruited you out of the Marines where you were a decorated sharpshooter." She pulls back the carafe and continues. "You've been commended several times. You were at Ruby Ridge and consulted at Waco. There's a good deal of speculation that if they'd taken your advice life loss would have been minimal. _You_ started the Behavioral Analysis Unit, but they made Max Ryan unit chief because he has seniority and more credentials." The carafe meets the table surface.

He blinks up at her. "You've done your homework."

"Why do homework when you've done it all for me? You were at the same talk at Yale as Agent Ryan. Actually, you were the featured speaker; he seemed to be along to help with the questions."

It's likely true. Part of their funding depends on doing the dog and pony show at college campuses, in Criminal Justice and Poli-Sci classes, trying to get the best and brightest to consider the Bureau as a career. There's no set talk. Two of them always go; one of them takes point and the other supports (and usually makes fun of the other one on the way back to the bunker).

His smile is slow but wide. "You were playing him."

She has the grace to look down and he notices the flush high on her cheeks. "I wasn't playing him. I was _concentrating_ on him."

"So, what, you want a job in the BAU when you graduate?" He raises a challenging eyebrow.

She snorts. "I'm not an idiot. Somebody would have to be a certified genius, with half a dozen PhDs for a rookie to be taken straight into the BAU."

He _likes_ this girl. "So, what's your game?"

"No game." She shrugs. "I was hoping to get his card. One of my thesis readers is writing a book on Dahmer." Now, she gives him an eyebrow of her own. "And yes, I'm confident my thesis is going to be good without doing favors for my readers, but I like Dr. Baron and politics aside, talking to Agent Ryan would help him out."

Rossi reaches into his pocket, pulls out a business card and scratches Max's extension number on the back. "I was rude last week." He holds the card out to her scissored between two fingers, and deliberately makes his tone and words more formal. "Please accept this as a token of my sincere regret."

Smiling, Emily accepts the card and he blinks again. She has a beauty queen smile, bright, wide and dazzling. "I wasn't doing my job and you were right to call me on it. You don't really have to apologize, but-" She waves the card before slipping it into her pocket. "-I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth." Tilting her head, her expression sobers slightly. "Thank you."

He smiles in return. "You're welcome."

Clearing her throat, she pulls out a pad and pen. "What would you like?"

He orders the soup and they have a brief discussion about the lasagna. "It's good if all you're used to is Stouffer's. But if you're looking for more authentic, I'd go with the eggplant parm, but I haven't had it since the middle of summer, so I don't know about the quality of the eggplant."

"How do you know authentic?" he challenges.

"Two years in Rome." She purses her lips in a way that makes her look both smug and a little bit naughty.

He raises his hands in surrender. "All right. You know authentic." He doesn't want to risk off season eggplant either, so he looks back up at her. "What do you recommend?"

"Healthy or good?" she asks with a grin.

He grins back. "I eat for my health weekdays, and am a hedonist on the weekends."

Her eyebrow arches along with her tone. "Is that so?"

It's been a long time since he's found himself tripped up by his own tongue and he actually thinks he might be blushing a little. _Thanks be to God neither Gideon nor Max is here to see it_. He counters his slight embarrassment with a severe look, but Emily, obviously unmoved and equally unrepentant, just grins at him again, though she does have the grace to move forward. "Burgers are always good, but you had that last week." She pauses for a moment, shifting from her right foot to her left, her hip cocking slightly towards his table. "The beef stroganoff is probably the best I've had in the states and the chicken pie is good."

Dave closes his menu decisively. "I'll have the stroganoff."

This time when she smiles it's without cheek. "What dressing do you want on your salad?"

Handing the menu to her, he shakes his head. "Just the soup."

"Coming right up." Emily turns smartly on her heel and walks toward the kitchen.

There's a rush of customers shortly after she places his soup in front of him so their exchanges are brief. Still, he finds himself lingering over coffee long after he's finished his really excellent beef stroganoff. The other customers have mostly cleared out, except for one couple lingering over their own coffee, when Emily appears beside his table with the coffee carafe in one hand and a dessert plate with a cannoli in the other. There's a fresh coffee cup hooked on her pinkie and she looks at him expectantly. "Do you mind if I join you?"

_Oh, hell no,_ he thinks, hoping his eagerness doesn't show through too much as he says, "Sure. Have a seat."

Sliding into the booth, she hands him the cannoli.

He frowns at the pastry. "I didn't order this."

"My treat." She gives him the same grin from earlier. "Consider it a hedonistic bribe."

Glaring mildly, he pulls the dessert plate towards him. "I'd like to know what I'm being bribed for before accepting payment."

Producing a clean fork from somewhere she hands it across the table. "I'd like to pick your brain about the Bureau."

Eating cannoli while maintaining both the integrity of the pastry and one's dignity is a fine art, one Dave has learned in his thirty-eight years. He might normally eat one with his fingers, but with the cheese to pastry ratio here, he thinks the fork is a good idea and accepts it willingly. "So what do you want to know?" The fork touches the pastry and as he cuts, the cream and sweetened cheese oozes from both ends. He slides the bite into his mouth.

"My undergrad is in Criminal Justice...I think I said that the other night? I also have a minor in Poli-Sci." She angles her body so she's leaning against the side of the booth and her legs are draped across the seat. "That was my mother's doing; she hasn't given up hope of me following in her footsteps." Her tone is mostly exasperated, but he hears a bit of fondness in there as well. "My advisor at Yale suggested psychology for my masters or law school if I was serious about the Bureau."

"And are you?" He wiped his napkin across his lips. "Serious about the Bureau?"

"Yeah." She takes a sip of coffee and stares into the cup for a minute before looking up at him. "Yeah, I am."

He cuts another piece of the pastry and watches as it collapses, flattens, and cream billows out. "Then what's your question?"

Shaking her head, she laughs a little. "Am I on the right track?"

She has a nice laugh. Rich and a little husky, it's sexy as hell, he decides. "Have you decided on your thesis yet?"

"Obsessional Crimes and Sexual Dysfunction. I'm looking at both rapists and serial killers. My reader is urging me to narrow it down, but I haven't been able to find a clear hook."

Dave nods, taking a sip of his own coffee. "Are you looking at arsonists, too?"

Emily pauses with her cup halfway to her mouth, blinks, and puts the cup back on the table. "I hadn't thought of it."

He quirks an eyebrow and gives a half shrug, half nod. "See if looking at all three doesn't force some clarity."

"I will." She smiles at him, a nice, soft smile.

He decides to press his luck. "Now can I ask you a question?"

For just a second he sees a flash of something that looks a lot like alarm before her expression smoothes over. "I did pay for my question with cannoli," she points out evenly.

"Put it on my bill and let me ask you a question." He gives her a smile of his own. "Quid pro quo."

Snorting into her coffee cup, Emily looks a little dubious. "What is this, _Silence of the Lambs_?"

Dave can't help his grin. "Does that make me Hannibal or Clarice?"

She laughs again, a little snortier, a little less elegant and though it isn't nearly as sexy as the one a few minutes before, he might like it better. "Could I take you out to dinner sometime?"

There's a slight flush high on her cheekbones, if she weren't so fair he wouldn't have noticed, but her expression is a conflict between wary and pleased. "Agent Rossi..."

"Dave," he corrects gently.

"Dave." She inclines her head in acknowledgment. "I'm not dating right now." She holds up a hand, as though he has cried some objection and she wants to forestall him before he gets too far. "Don't get me wrong...you seem to be a really great guy, but I'm not seeing anyone right now. Between classes and the thesis and working here on the weekends...dating is just not on the agenda right now."

He's disappointed...well, a little. He hadn't really expected it to go anywhere and she seems sincere in her reasons for turning him down.

Still.

"All work and no play makes Emily a dull girl."

Again, her snorty laugh makes him half smile as she responds. "All work and no play makes sure Emily does well in school, makes progress on her thesis and keeps a roof over her head."

Dave runs a frankly assessing eye over her and nods. "Fair enough. But you have my card...if your schedule should lighten up..."

Grinning, Emily pats her pocket. "You'll be my first call."

Over the next week he finds himself thinking about Emily Prentiss and her snorty laugh and her sexy laugh, and when Hotch asks them if they want to grab a bite when they get in from a case in South Carolina Saturday evening, Dave is happy to suggest Emily's diner. Max's eyebrows climb, but he responds, "Sure. Carol is in California. This will be better than the McDonald's drive-thru." Gideon spreads the pictures from Kansas out on his desk and never answers the invitation.

Emily smiles and raises a hand in greeting when she sees them slide into what Dave is fast coming to think of as his booth. It's only a couple of minutes before she's at their table with three cups and the coffee pot. "Agent Ryan, it's good to see you again." Her voice is formal and her smile is winning, and Dave is secretly delighted to see Max puff up a little as she fills his coffee cup. "Agent Hotchner, my mother said to tell you hello if I saw you again."

"Please give her my best," The Kid says.

She nods and begins pouring Dave's coffee. "You were right about the arson thing, Dave."

He feels the eyes of the other two land on him, but he ignores them and concentrates instead on Emily. "Good. I hoped it would help."

"It did." He gets the wide, beauty queen smile and he hopes it doesn't blow her chances of charming Max, but he feels a tug in the middle of his chest at the sight of it. "I'll be back in a minute to get your order."

Max waits until she's decently far enough away to lean across the table and hiss. "Dave? You've gone from asshole agent to Dave? And you helped her out with something? I guess now I know how one of her advisors got my phone number." Max has a booming and merry laugh and it draws everyone in the diner's attention, but Dave doesn't mind. Dave looks at Emily, smiling at him as she passes with another table's order. No, he doesn't mind at all.

"I need a black skirt," she says out of the blue one Saturday night.

She's draped across the opposite seat of the booth. It's close enough to closing that she's taken her hair down, and he's rather mesmerized by the fall of it over her shoulders. His fingers itch to reach across the table and brush through it from scalp to ends.

Without conscious thought, he's become a regular at the diner every Friday and Saturday night and sometimes Sunday afternoons. He knows Hector is the owner's son and has hopes to open a place of his own in a few years. He knows Dottie, who is about to become a first time grandmother and Jenn, whose husband is in Afghanistan. Sean is the weekend busboy, and Joey and Willie share the kitchen. He knows the beef stew is as good as the vegetable soup, but not to have the beef tips when Willie is cooking. He's well fed, and he realized last week, this is the longest he's gone without having sex since his divorce.

He's not exactly sure why, either. Emily has shown no interest in being more than friends, and it's not exactly like she could hold anything against him if she changed her mind. But, still, he's stopped looking. And when he's jacking off in the shower it's Emily's face he sees, Emily's body he imagines.

"What?" he asks, partially confused by the complete non-sequitur and partially trying not to imagine her legs if he were to ever see her in a skirt.

She frowns at him. "I need a new black skirt. I don't have class on Wednesday. The first draft of the thesis is with my advisor and I need a new black skirt. My mother is going to be in town next week, and I don't have a suitably sober skirt to show up to Thanksgiving dinner. So, I'm going shopping on Wednesday."

He's still a little confused but he knows she tends to babble when she's working her way up to something. "And?"

"And I don't think it'll take all day, and I wanted to ask you to lunch." Her eyes widen a little, and she flushes slightly and continues, "To, you know, thank you. For all of your help."

He's not sure how much help he's been, but he has talked things out with her, as well as pointed some things out that might send her in a better direction. He's also enjoyed hearing about a childhood spent globe-trotting and telling her about his quick first marriage and the slow, sad breakdown of his second. She's thanked him plenty, even bought him a few meals. So, he decides to needle her a little. "You mean, like a date?"

"No." She narrows her eyes at him. "Like a lunch."

"Hmmm," he says consideringly. "Will you wear the skirt?"

Heaving a sigh, she slides off the bench. "We can meet closer to Quantico if that makes it easier on you."

He shakes his head. "I've actually got a meeting at the Hoover Building on Wednesday. How about 1:30 at that little pub in Georgetown you told me about?"

The mention of the pub was several weeks ago and only in passing, but he's made an effort to pay attention. He's tried not to look at that too closely; he usually doesn't waste energy pursuing someone who isn't interested, and he's not sure why this time is any different. Not that he's actively pursuing Emily. Really, he just enjoys spending time with her. She's quick and smart and has the most sarcastic wit he's ever had the pleasure to experience. He's seen her be serious and passionate, irreverent and blasé, earnest and nerdy.

Right now she's smiling at him fondly, and at the moment he doesn't care why he's paid attention, he's just glad he has.

"So." She bites the corner of her lip a trifle hesitantly before continuing, "I'll see you Wednesday?"

"Yeah, you will." He grins at her and reaches for his wallet as she heads back toward the kitchen.

He's the last one out, as usual, and even though the weekend crew is tolerant of him taking up a table, he doesn't want to delay any of them getting home to their families. Besides, he doesn't have to wait until Friday to see Emily again; he only has to wait until Wednesday. It's a little easier to leave tonight, and he quashes his usual temptation to wait and watch to make sure she gets to her car all right. Hector and Willie have both let him know they all leave as a group so nobody is at risk. Besides, if he watches to make sure she gets to her elderly Civic and then to make sure it starts, how much longer before he's following her to make sure she gets home okay? And how long after that before he's sitting outside her apartment checking to see when he lights go off or to make sure she's home alone? Nah, he's seen too much obsession, and as tempting as it is, Dave's never been one to meet a slippery slope and not slide. Best to avoid the slope and the slippery all together.

Wednesday will be here soon enough.

Only Wednesday finds him in Manhattan, Kansas, sitting across the table from the parents of another murdered woman. Lori Morrison was a senior majoring in Chemistry at Kansas State University. She was blonde haired and blue eyed, but he can't help the thought _She's only a little younger than Emily_ when he looks at the pictures of her broken body.

Emily still hadn't given him her number; his plan had been to charm it out of her at lunch. He takes the only recourse he has and calls the diner on his way out of town on Monday. He gets Hector, who won't give him Emily's number, but does agree to call her for him and explain the situation. Dave gives him the number of his cell phone (it's supposed to be just for Bureau use, but screw that) and tells him to tell Emily to call. She doesn't, of course, and he's not surprised; he just hopes it's because she knows he's on a case and doesn't want to bother him and not because she's pissed he couldn't make lunch.

So, he sends flowers to the diner on Friday. He doesn't have a lot of time to agonize over just the right thing to say so he settles for simple. _I'm sorry. Dave._ Saturday night when they break for dinner he goes back to the hotel and sits on the faded bedspread and calls the diner. "Rocky's" says a gruff voice on the other end.

"Hey, Willie. It's Dave. Is Emily around?"

There's no answer into the phone, but in the distance Dave can hear him call. "Hey, Emily, Romeo's on the phone for you."

Dave tries to imagine her face. Is she flushing or irritated? Is she rolling silverware into napkins or putting waters down in front of customers when Willie calls across the diner? She must be reasonably close though because he hears the phone change hands fairly quickly. There's some exchange between Willie and Emily as she takes up the phone, and it sounds suspiciously like the Ambassador's daughter has just told the 6'6" 400 lb ex-boxer to "bite me."

Dave is grinning at the receiver when Emily says, "Dave?"

"Hi." He's smiling. He's lovesick and ridiculous and probably a dirty old man, but he's smiling so hard his cheeks are starting to hurt. It's bad, because he didn't mean for this to happen again, _ever_. He'd been having fun and hadn't wanted anything more serious, and she's so young she probably wants kids, and he guesses that would be okay, but hell, she doesn't even want to go out on a date with him. Still, he's smiling.

"Hi." Her voice is a little wobbly and he hears her clear her throat; she sounds a little nervous. "Thank you for the flowers. You didn't have to do that."

"I couldn't possibly stand a lady up without some kind of apology." He is trying to sound both chivalrous and affronted to tease her a little, but he can't do much more than remember to speak when he's concentrating so hard on the sound of her breathing. "Hector gave you the message, right?'

"Yeah." Emily gives a little laugh. "I don't know what you said to him, but I came home Tuesday to a half dozen messages on my machine making sure I knew you'd called."

"He's a good man," Dave says, not really thinking about it, but it's something else to say, another thing to keep her on the phone for another few minutes.

"Yeah." He can almost see her there at the phone behind the counter, back to the dining area, twisting the phone cord absently around her finger. "The flowers...they're really gorgeous. Thank you."

His first instinct is to say she's really gorgeous, but he doesn't voice it. Instead he says lightly, "I didn't want to ruin my chances for a free lunch the next time you go shopping."

She laughs, but he can hear the tension start to creep in to her voice. "I hate to..."

"Yeah," he sighs. "I know, you gotta go."

"You..." She starts, then stops, then picks up again. "How long will you be gone?"

"I hope not long." Then he lets the smile on his face show in his voice. "Do you miss me?"

He expects another laugh, but the response he gets is a little more interesting. "Nothing is the same without you here." In the background he hears someone call for her. "I gotta go. I'll see you when you get back."

"Take care, Emily." His heart is clenched in his chest, and he hates his job, and he hates Manhattan Kansas, and he fucking hates the twisted asshole who is murdering innocent young women.

"Bye, Dave."

He hears the click and the dial tone before he returns the receiver to the cradle.

It takes everything he's got to not call again on Sunday, but he tells himself to stay focused and get this guy so he can get home.

In the end, it's Gideon who sees the pattern in the murders, Hotch who finds the connection between the victims and Dave's the one that sees the person that's unseen: maintenance, delivery, utility...landscaper. Max ends up shooting the guy in the middle of campus. It's a clean shoot, but it means another day before they can fly out. Still they make it home in time for him to repack a bag and head to his parents' house for Thanksgiving.

Mama tries to talk him into staying the weekend, but he's on the road again Friday afternoon, headed back to DC. He's not going another day without seeing Emily.

She's behind the counter when he walks through the door, and the first look on her face when she sees him is...happy. But it quickly changes to something a little bit nervous, a little bit guilty as her gaze shifts to the two men sitting at the counter. They're both about Emily's age and appear to be having some sort of exchange with her. One, dark haired, dressed in an old army jacket, hunched over a cup of coffee, doesn't look up as Dave takes a seat at his usual table. But the other one, he's got a high forehead and a sullen face (Dave wonders, somewhat unkindly, if it's occurred to the punk yet he's going bald) that give him the look of a not quite mature caveman. His eyes follow Dave, flicking back to Emily, then Dave as he slides into his booth.

Emily seems distressed, but he can't do anything from here. If something was really wrong, Willie would have handled it or Hector would have gotten out the Louisville Slugger that rests under the register. Still, he doesn't like the looks of it. Emily's face is too tense, her movements are jerky as she pours Neanderthal boy a cup of coffee and puts the pot down with a plunk. She says something to both of them and starts toward Dave, but caveboy grabs her hand. Emily twists it free and says something sharp before Dave is half way out of his seat, so he settles back down and watches as Emily approaches.

"Hi." She smiles and pushes an invisible lock of hair back behind her ear and her tone is a mix of happy and nervous, but not the good kind of nervous he'd heard on the phone last week.

"Everything all right?" He doesn't want to give her the impression he thinks she can't take care of herself, but he also doesn't want her to think she can't ask him if she needs some help.

"Yeah." Emily looks over her shoulder quickly; dark haired Army jacket is still holding on to his coffee cup, but Neanderthal is turned around on his stool, elbows resting on the counter behind him, openly staring at Emily and Dave.

Her lips are pursed and her eyebrows are drawn down and he knows where she's going to get the first lines on her face. It hits him then, the way his giddy thoughts sitting on an ugly bedspread in an average priced hotel in Kansas had hit him. He wants to see that. He wants to be there the first time she notices she's getting lines or wrinkles; he wants to come up behind her in the mirror and kiss the side of her neck and convince her she's beautiful, she'll always be beautiful, she'll always be beautiful to him.

But Army boy and Neanderthal have his gut tightening and his instincts screaming that something's not right, and he's afraid whatever it is doesn't match up with that future in front of the mirror. "You sure? 'Cause if you need my help..."

She shakes her head and turns back to face him fully. "Just a couple of guys I grew up with...well, spent a few years with in Italy. One of them is going through a rough time right now."

The look he gives her must be doubtful, because the smile she gives him is soft and grateful, though her eyes are still troubled. "Really. Everything is fine." She puts her hand on his arm, and without thinking, he reaches out with his other hand to grasp her fingers.

Her eyes widen a little, then soften. "How was your Thanksgiving?" She turns her hand within his grasp and runs her thumb over the ridge of his fingers, and he has to concentrate on answering the question instead of absorbing the feel of skin on skin, no matter how slight.

"Good. It was good." His large and loud family holidays are very different than the quiet elegant ones Emily has described. "Yours?"

"Pretty quiet. I didn't even manage to argue with my mother this year." Her tone is dry.

He snorts a little laugh. "Maybe she's mellowing."

Emily tilts her head and squeezes his hand. "Maybe I'm growing up." With obvious reluctance she withdraws her hand and pulls her pad out of her pocket. "Do you know what you want?"

He barely manages not to answer, "You." Instead he asks who's cooking and when she answers Willie, he says anything but the beef tips. She cracks a smile and then realizes she forgot to bring his coffee. Then there's a steady stream of customers through the door, and Neanderthal and Army boy seem to demand her attention during her free time.

Hector actually brings his food. "Glad you're back, man."

Dave looks at the pork tenderloin and mashed potatoes in front of him with a nod. "Me, too."

Hector inclines his head toward the counter. "I don't have a good feeling about those two."

Eyebrows climbing into his forehead, Dave looks at Hector's frowning face. "Yeah? Why?"

Hector shakes his head, "I dunno. But you shoulda seen her face when they walked in."

Dave nods. "I'll keep an eye out."

Hector nods in return. "Yeah. Me too."

On one hand, Dave is even more concerned knowing Hector is picking up the same feeling from these guys. On the other hand, he's a little bit relieved; he's glad to know the feeling isn't just jealousy. Though there's that, too, he admits, looking at Neanderthal.

Patience is not necessarily something he's known for, but that doesn't mean he's not capable. So, he settles in to wait. Problem is Army boy and Neanderthal seem to be set on waiting, too. About thirty minutes before closing, the three of them are the only customers left and Emily and Hector are having a conversation in the corner. Dave can tell from his expression and body language Hector doesn't like what Emily is saying, but given the look of earnestness and pleading on Emily's face it would take a stronger man than Dave to tell her "no" and evidently, Hector is not that man. Obviously unhappy about it, Hector, jaw clenched, nods at whatever she's saying, and Emily grabs for her coat. Army boy and Neanderthal stand and Neanderthal pays their check.

Emily scurries over to Dave. "I'm so sorry," her voice is breathy and she is wound as tight as he's ever seen her. "Matthew isn't feeling well and John and I are going to take him home." From the pallor and the sweats, Dave is going to guess Army boy is Matthew and that makes Neanderthal John. She gives him a trembling, apologetic smile. "I hate this. I had so much I wanted to talk to you about." She looks surprised for a moment, as if she can't really believe she just said that, then she gives a minute shake of her head and continues. "I have to do this. I'll explain tomorrow." The look she gives him is suddenly stricken, as though something unthinkable just occurred to her. "You _will_ be here tomorrow, won't you?"

"I'll be here," he nods. Nothing in the world would keep him away.

Emily looks over her shoulder, but Hector is wiping down the counter and Neanderthal is escorting Army boy (_Matthew_ Dave corrects himself) out the door. Leaning forward so quickly it leaves him blinking, she presses a kiss far back on his cheek, just in front of his ear. "Good," she whispers, then draws away, heading out the door.

He watches her and sees John watching him. "I'll be here," he repeats though no one can hear him.

Tomorrow comes, but Emily is not there.

Hector, thank God...well, thank Hector, had kept Dave's cell phone number and showed no hesitation in using it. "Dave, man, it's Hector."

Suddenly, Dave feels cold all over. "Is everything okay?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm calling."

Dave wants to scream at the man to just spit it out, but he reminds himself he doesn't need to bite anybody's head off until he knows what's going on. "Tell me."

"Emily just called in. She's never done that before; she said she got Sissy from days to come in for her, but she wanted to let me know." Hector sounds more concerned over Emily than upset about his help. "She didn't sound like she was in trouble...just sounded really tired. But after those guys last night..." He lets the thought fall without being finished. "So, I thought, you know, I gotta work and everything, I thought maybe you might wanna do me a favor and go check on her?"

Despite the worry starting to throb in the middle of his chest, Dave smiles into the phone.

"Yeah, Hector, I'd be happy to, but I don't have her address."

"Got a pen?" Hector asks without hesitation and reads an address from what Dave assumes is Emily's personnel file. Her place is in Georgetown, on the same street as the pub where they were supposed to have lunch last week. He'd looked it up before so he doesn't even have to look at a map before he heads out the door. The building is brick, tucked back behind a strip of brownstones on the opposite end of the street from the pub, and if he hadn't been looking for it, he would never have noticed it. He's guessing it had once been a large carriage house or a small warehouse. Now it's six studio apartments, and he doesn't care how independent Hotch says she is, there is no way she was paying for this from what she makes as a TA and a waitress, not in this location. It doesn't bother him, but he makes a note to give her grief about it once everything is back to normal and he knows she's okay.

By some miracle, there's a parking place on the street; not that he would have let that deter him. He'd have double parked and posted his FBI placard in a heartbeat, but that little bit of line blurring between personal and professional is not necessary, thankfully. It's almost dark, and the temperature is dropping. The weatherman had said rain tonight. Dave frowns. People take shelter and are harder to find when it rains. He pulls his coat a little tighter and heads into the building.

Her apartment is on the third floor and he takes the stairs two at a time. He can't hear anything through the door, but he knocks anyway then pauses to listen again. There's still no movement, no noise. He knocks again, calling, "Emily?", but of course there's no answer. He tries the knob but it's locked. Though he briefly debates with himself about kicking in the door, the more reasonable part of his brain remembers Hector saying she sounded okay, just tired. Besides, he hadn't seen her car outside, so the chances she's unconscious in her apartment are minimal.

So, the next question is, _Where is she?_

He needs more information to figure that out, he decides. If he was on the job, he'd interview her associates, so he heads to the diner. Hector knows her address and where she goes to school, but not a lot about her daily habits. Nobody knows anything about the two guys that had been in the diner the night before, but nobody liked them much. Dave's never met Sissy, but she's a sweet woman and eager to please. "She didn't say anything was wrong, just she had to do somethin' and could I work for her." Sissy shrugs a round shoulder. "I got kids, and Christmas is coming. You bet I wanted the shift. I didn't ask questions, I just said yes."

Dottie is on tonight instead of Jenn, and she remembers Emily saying she spends all of her time at one of the libraries when she's not in class or at the diner.

"Lauinger," Willie supplies as he plates a well done burger for table four. "Her carrel is on the third floor, toward the back near the conference room." He gives Dave a baleful stare. "What? You think just 'cause I work with my hands I don't know how to read? Or talk to people who read?" Dave shakes his head, smacks Willie on the shoulder and heads towards Georgetown and Lauinger. The point is moot when he gets to campus and finds the library closed. He'd forgotten it's a holiday weekend.

Smacking a fist against his steering wheel, he watches the first fat raindrops hit the windshield. He takes a slow drive around campus, sweeping headlights over doorways of buildings and darkened campus corners.

He calls the diner but they haven't seen or heard from her, and they don't have any more suggestions for where he might look. So he makes another tour of campus before driving the most obvious route between campus and her apartment. He has to pull over more than once to let an impatient car pass. He's driving slowly and carefully, looking through the rain pouring down his windshield for her car parked along the road or her figure walking along the sidewalks. Briefly he considers calling Hotch to get Ambassador Prentiss's home address, but then rethinks it. As far as he knows it's not an emergency, and alarming Emily's mother at ten o'clock on a Saturday night is not the way he wants to meet her. Besides, he's pretty sure Emily would be pissed. He's gained some ground lately and he doesn't want to lose it. He parks in front of her building, grabs his umbrella and goes up to the third floor.

Even though he didn't see her car, he still knocks on the door and calls "Emily?", but he doesn't expect an answer. He rests his head against the door for a minute, contemplating his next move. Heaving a sigh, he turns and sees Emily emerging from the stairwell.

The first surge of emotion is pure relief. It's not until his knees almost give out that he acknowledges how scared he'd been. But then he really looks at her and feels his gut clench. She's soaked, her hair is dripping wet and her clothes and shoes are so wet she's making _squishing_ noises as she walks.

"Emily?"

She looks up and his heart breaks a little. Her face is devoid of makeup, save for a remaining smudge of eyeliner under her right eye, and there are dark circles under both eyes. She's pale beyond her normal fair skin, except for what looks like a smear of blood under her nose. There's a look of desolation on her face, pain so sharp it's like a punch to the solar plexus. He doesn't think, just takes a step forward and pulls her close.

"Dave." Her voice is a whisper against the skin of his neck. "I'll get you all wet." Her words are a protest, but she doesn't try to move from the circle of his arms.

He can feel her shivering under his hands and it's that that gets him to let her go. "C'mon." He kisses her hair. "Let's get you dry."

It seems to take forever for her to dig her house key out of her pocket. She's wearing jeans, and he wishes he had time to enjoy the view since all he's ever seen her in is her server uniform from Rocky's, but she's visibly trembling by now and he knows he needs to get her inside and dry as soon as possible. He takes the key from her shaking hand and unlocks the door, pushing her through ahead of him. Quickly taking stock he sees a sofa and a coffee table. There's a desk in one corner and a bed with black sheets and a white comforter in the opposite corner.

He strips her out of her jacket, pushes the bathroom door open and drapes the garment over the shower rod. He turns the faucet to hot and starts the shower. Then he goes to the dresser beside the bed and rifles through, grabbing a pair of sweat pants and a long sleeve shirt along with some socks and underwear. That drawer makes him pause until he remembers Emily standing behind him, wet and shivering. Gently, he nudges her towards the bathroom. "Shower," he says, pushing her into the room and pulling the door closed behind her.

He's walking toward the kitchenette when he hears something bang inside the bathroom. He turns back to the door and listens for a moment. Emily is quietly but very colorfully cursing in a nonstop stream.

"Emily?" He says after a minute. "Are you okay?"

There's a pause, then another thud. "Fighting to get my jeans off."

Dave remembers the trouble he had getting out of his jeans the last time he fell in a lake fully dressed. Despite the situation he can't help the smile he gives or the tiny surge of gratitude that she can't see it. "Need some help?"

There's another pause and he raises his eyebrows at the door, but her voice finally comes through, a little bit shaky with a shade of her usual sauciness threaded through. "I'm almost there. Thanks though."

Dave sheds his own coat and starts an investigation of her kitchen. He finds coffee, three different types of tea, a bottle of Merlot, a half empty pint of vodka and a full bottle of Peppermint Schnapps. Reaching back further he discovers a bottle of Kahlua that feels about a third full. His plan had been tea with brandy and failing brandy, then whiskey. As it stands, he's going to modify to coffee and Kahlua. He starts the coffee, and then starts looking for food. There's pasta, but nothing resembling sauce. There are a few cans of soup and a box of macaroni and cheese, plus a few slices left from a loaf of bread. The refrigerator has a half empty jar of giant olives, a stump of what was once a stick of butter, a few eggs and some passable cheese. He opens a can of tomato soup and puts it in a small saucepan on the stove. He finds her skillet and begins melting the butter as he assembles cheese and bread.

The soup is steaming, and he's just plated the second grilled cheese when he feels the gust of steam from the bathroom door opening. He hands her the laced coffee and herds her towards the sofa. She doesn't have a dining table so he puts their plates on the coffee table. He puts the soup in mugs thinking the logistics of that will be easier than moving either bowl from table to lap or spoon from bowl to mouth. "Thanks," she says and slowly begins eating.

He begins eating too, trying not to let her catch him watching her. She's mostly silent, but she eats half the sandwich and drinks most of the soup. When she sits back with her hands curled around her coffee mug, he lets her tuck her sock clad toes between his thigh and the sofa cushion and asks, "Better?"

Her hair is damp, and it dances around her face when she nods. She's still pale, the dark circles are still there, but she doesn't look quite as fragile. She looks impossibly young and heart-breakingly beautiful, and he honestly doesn't know what to do with these feelings in the middle of his chest, doesn't know how to help her, but he does know he has to try.

He doesn't prevaricate or even finesse, he just dives in. "So, what's the story?"

She looks at him, then looks back into her mug. "Matthew...has some issues...with substance abuse."

Nodding, Dave leans back, angling his body towards her, extending his arm across the back of the sofa. That's not really a surprise; he hadn't thought the pallor and the sweats had been from some bad leftover turkey. "Yeah, I figured."

She stares into her cup. "He wants to get clean." Her eyelashes are dark against her pale skin and her hair brushes the edge of his hand when she leans forward.

"Treatment?" Dave asks.

She shakes her head and the downturn of her mouth is bitter. "His parents could afford treatment, but they just keep sending him to church, keep praying for him. His mother," she gives a choked laugh that sounds both painful and disdainful, "tells him he is possessed by a demon. Sometimes I think he believes it." She takes a long, slow sip of coffee and then puts the mug on the table. "Occasionally they'll try some tough love and kick him out. It just gets worse." Her eyes flick up. "He doesn't have any insurance. He only has John and me."

"Emily," he says gently, "you know he needs medical attention for a detox."

"I know, I know," she nods and picks her cup back up. "But he wanted to try on his own. He said if he got really sick to take him to the ER, then at least he'd be triaged in faster." She takes a sip of her coffee. "I think maybe he thought the hospital would call his parents, let them know..." Emily shrugs, blowing an errant strand of hair away from her mouth.

He reaches out a hand and tucks her hair behind her ear, allowing his fingertips to linger against the curve of her head. "What happened?"

Her lip trembles and he watches her take a breath and steel her spine as the cup lands back on the table with a loud _thunk_. "He did okay for awhile. I mean, yeah, he was hurting and there was some vomiting...not so much that he would have dehydrated though. Then...I don't know...we were talking...John was asleep..."

Dave bristles but manages not to scream something about some stupid punk going to sleep and leaving Emily to deal with the detoxing addict. "And?" He makes a conscious effort to relax his face, but his eyebrows are drawn so close together he can feel the muscles knotting and bunching.

"He seemed fine, then he said he didn't want to do it any more...and..." her hand covers her mouth and he remembers the blood under her nose when she first got home.

"He hurt you?" He's still sitting, but only through sheer force of will, It must show, because Emily reaches out and grabs his forearm.

"It was an accident," she says urgently. "Dave. It was an accident. He didn't mean to."

"He bloodied your nose." Dave's not sure he recognizes his own voice. "What else did he do to you?"

"Nothing. No." She puts her hand on his cheek and makes eye contact. "Nothing." Her voice is calm and clear, and she is speaking to him in a deliberate tone. "He was not trying to hurt me. I just got in his way. Once I was out of the way, he left."

It's her fingers cupping his face that ground him and allow his rage to subside. The absolute fury, though, is not directed at Matthew but at that stupid fucking Neanderthal punk, for leaving Emily alone with Matthew in that situation.

He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. She's here, she's right here in front of him and she's safe and she's touching him. "Okay," he breathes. "Okay."

Then, she's snuggled up against him and he's hugging her close. "Okay. Then what?"

"He left." That might be the truth, but he can tell from her voice it's not the whole truth.

"And?"

She sighs, and he feels it against his chest. "He took money out of my purse and he took my car and he left."

"He took your car?" His voice doesn't have any heat to it. She's safe and he's holding her, they can deal with everything else.

"It's not...that's not Matthew." She presses her head against his shoulder. "He's a sweet boy. The drugs..."

Dave presses a kiss to the top of her head. "I know, I know." He hesitates, but he needs to know the whole story. "What happened?"

He feels her hesitate and decides not to press, but she replies anyway. "I woke John. We went looking for him."

"You went looking for him?" Dave is incredulous. Drug houses in DC are dangerous places, andhe's not sure if he wants to chew her out for being so goddamn stupid or hug her for being brave. Both, he decides after a minute.

"Yeah." She sounds tired and sad. "We...yeah...we found him. Of course, he'd already scored. But he had enough money that we were worried about how much...so, we took him back to John's. Stayed up with him. He's okay."

He almost hates to ask. "What about your car?"

She shrugs. "Gone."

Sighing, he hugs her a little closer. He's got a buddy with the DC police; they can report her car as stolen without too much explanation. Tell the truth, but not name any names. He's got enough of a picture of her loyalty to her friend without having to ask if she'd report him as the thief. But, of course, he's going to ask anyway. "Why are you doing this? Maybe tough love is the way to go. Take him to the ER, report him to the police. Quit bailing him out, make him face the consequences."

She tenses against him. "I can't."

Dave isn't backing down. If that's the way she feels, fine. But there's got to be a reason. "Why not?"

Her next words are tinted with anguish. "It's my fault."

"No, it's not," Dave is using as firm a tone as he can manage without actually yelling. "Matthew makes his own choices."

She shakes her head. "His life would be entirely different if it weren't for me." Emily moves out of the circle of his arms, sitting on the edge of the sofa with her back to him.

Dave is a smart guy, and he's been doing this profiling thing since before it became a science or an art or whatever the hell they consider it these days, and he's always been good at reading people. There's something in her voice, something in the rigid set of her shoulders that lets him know she really feels responsible. He doesn't want to press, he doesn't want to pry, but he wants the chance to help if she'll let him in. He gentles his tone and looks at the back of her head. "If you, uh, don't want to explain that's fine. But if you do-" He pauses for the briefest second, then says the most true thing he's ever said. "-I'm all in."

Emily turns around, bites her lip and looks at him, but barely. When she starts talking, it's like she's picked up in the middle of a conversation she was having before he arrived. He doesn't call her on it; if there's one thing the job has taught him it's how to listen. The way she starts might be abrupt, but it's obviously an important part of the story. "Matthew knew the Bible inside and out and he started to question everything."

"Why?"

Moving back to the opposite corner of the sofa, she shakes her head, and he thinks it's almost unconscious. Her head tilts down and when she looks back up, her eyes are dark, and he sees raw pain and unbelievable fear there. Then she gives a jerky little nod of acquiescence, a nod that says _all right, you asked, I'm taking a chance, please don't let me down, but if you do, that's fine, I'll be okay_ and starts speaking. "We moved around a lot when I was a kid because of my mom's postings." Though her eyes are downcast, she raises her head, and he sees her, all of her, the girl she's talking about, the young woman she is, the woman she'll become, in the tilt of her chin and the set of her jaw. "It's hard to get accepted." She shakes her head again. "When you're fifteen, it's all you want." She looks down and when she looks up again, she can only meet his eyes for a second, before her gaze slips away. "You'll do almost anything."

Her voice is wobbly and she's trying so hard not to cry, it makes him want to cry for her. What "almost anything" is isn't hard to guess, and his heart aches for her. It's her story, but he wants to make it easier for her, so he says the hardest thing so she doesn't have to. "You got pregnant."

Thankfully, she's able to maintain eye contact for a bit longer before her eyes slip away again. Whatever she wants to see, he hopes it's there on his face. "Yeah."

"Was Matthew the father?" He'd be willing to bet the answer to that is no; he's also willing to bet he knows who was the father. "No." The response is quick, and her tone has evened out a little. "I didn't know what to do. I couldn't tell my mom. Matthew suggested I talk with our priest."

Dave remembers the priests from his childhood and can imagine how that went. "And what did he say?"

"He said-" Emily breathes out and moves a little closer to him, but he thinks it's more nervous energy than conscious movement. "-That if I had an abortion, I wasn't welcome in his congregation."

He'd expected that. "So, what'd you do?"

"Matthew found a doctor." Her voice is subdued and a little shaky, but he still hears the sadness and overwhelming gratitude. "He took me there; he stayed with me."

His heart is breaking, or maybe it's already broken. She's so strong, so brave, so grateful for a kindness she shouldn't have had to receive. He understands why she can't turn her back on Matthew. Even if she's not responsible for his actions, she wants to support him the way he supported her.

"That Sunday when we got back to Rome, he held my hand and walked me into the church." Her eyes touch him and fall away. "Father Gamino actually stopped...his sermon. But Matthew told me to hold my head up-" Consciously or unconsciously, she does so now. "-And we walked to the front pew."

_Gutsy,_ Dave thinks, but aloud he asks, "And what did the priest do?"

"He and Matthew just stared at each other." Her face is lost in memory, her focus on the past. "It was like a battle of wills." Then, she shrugs. "And then suddenly, Father Gamino went back to his sermon." She pauses, comes back to the here and now and looks at Dave fully for the first time since she began her story. Her eyes are dark and sad, her lashes are spiky and damp, her mouth is turned down. "Matthew saved my life. He made me feel like I was worthy...of love and friendship."

He wants to pull her in, wrap her up and tell her she's worthy of that and so much more. But he doesn't. She needs to get it all out and he needs to listen. "But that's when his questioning started?"

"Yeah. He started doing drugs." She takes a deep breath that sounds like a sigh in reverse. "And when that melded with his religious questioning, you could understand why his parents were afraid he was possessed by something evil."

Emily stops, sniffs back her unshed tears, tilts her head and says simply. "It's my fault Matthew's life unraveled." She blows out a breath.  
It's not her fault. It's not. But Dave knows about guilt; he knows the weight of it, the taste of it, the smell of it, the feel of it. He knows nothing he says is going to make her see that it is not her fault.

There is no escape from this for Emily, not as long as Matthew's life continues to "unravel" as she put it.

"There's a program, a buddy of mine runs it." He holds up his hands when Emily looks at him, eyes wide and full of hope. "He's a priest."

Her face falls, but he continues anyway. "It's not a religious program, though it's sponsored by the church. There's no religious requirement. Jimmy doesn't shove his faith down anyone's throat." He tilts his head until he can catch her eye. "And he owes me."

She chews on her lip for a minute and then nods. "Yeah. If it's not...if they don't try to exorcise him or anything, he'd probably be okay."

He feels himself give a half smile, and she smiles in return. "I love your lip tilt."

That's so unexpected, he barks out a laugh. "My what?"

"You do this thing-" She reaches out and stabs at his cheek with her finger. "-Where just one side of your face smiles...your lip tilts and it takes your cheek with it. It's cute."

"Cute?" He says doubtfully.

"Yep," she says, reaching for her coffee again.

He frowns. "I don't know how I feel about that."

She shrugs and takes a sip. "Doesn't matter how you feel about it."

He frowns harder at her, but inside he's heaving a relieved sigh. If she's back to giving him grief, she's moving in the right direction. "Get your shoes on, and I'll call Jimmy."

"What?" Emily is blinking at him rapidly, disbelievingly. "Now? Tonight?"

"No time like the present. You know where he is, if he's scored recently he'll be relatively malleable. He'll be feeling guilty for hitting you..." She starts to protest, but he holds up a staying hand and gives her a _don't argue with me, I am so not in the mood_ look, and he continues. "And stealing your money and, oh yeah, _your car_. He'll be feeling remorse for using again. We can get him and get him checked in." He looks at her seriously. "You know all we can do is get him there, right? The rest is up to him."

"God, yes." She lets out a long, low sigh. "Thank you, Dave."

"Shoes," is his only response as he starts to dial Jimmy.

Thirty minutes later they're pulling up at Neanderthal's apartment building, and it hits him why Emily was soaked when she got home. "You walked all that way in the rain?" Her profile doesn't shift in the darkened car, but he sees her shrug. "He couldn't give you a ride home?"

"He had to watch Matthew." Dave tries not to grit his teeth at her defensive tone.

"You could have called a cab." He's trying very hard not to sound paternal.

The light bleeding in from the complex's street lamps is enough to see the blush staining her cheeks. "I didn't have any money."

He doesn't want to point out that one of her friends stole her money or that the other could have offered to loan her some. Or that she could have called him.

"It wasn't a bad walk," she says. "It's not that far."

Astonished at the sheer stubborn pride of that, he blinks at her for a moment. He clamps down on the urge to call her an idiot. Or remind her she was soaked to the skin when she got to her place. Or that only an asshole would let a friend walk almost four miles in the pouring rain in the dark. He's not sure how he stops himself, but when she reaches out and grabs his hand and squeezes, he is grateful for whatever angel managed to give him that much self-restraint.

"Thank you." He sees her swallow. "No matter how things turn out for Matthew, I want you to know, I am grateful. Really. Thank you."

He turns his hand and catches her fingers. "Thank you for trusting me."

Her smile is tremulous, and she squeezes again before unlatching her seat belt and reaching for the door handle.

Neanderthal answers the door after the first knock, and Dave hears what sounds like cartoons deeper in the apartment. Road Runner, if he had to guess. There's the smell of slightly singed popcorn and, even fainter, the lingering odor of weed.

"John," Emily says, a little breathless, a little nervous, "this is Dave. Dave, John."

They nod at each other. The antipathy that emerged at the diner is sharper, more obvious, more focused.

_He's a punk_ Dave thinks, looking at John's sullen face. _And I don't have time for this bullshit._

"Where's your friend?" Dave figures if he uses Matthew's name, he'll have to use John's, and he's not going to give this asshole that much respect.

Neanderthal jerks his head toward the back, and Dave doesn't wait for a clearer invitation as he pushes his way inside, Emily following close behind.

Dave was right. Road Runner. Matthew is on John's sofa staring peacefully at Wiley Coyote who hangs suspended in mid air for an instant, then, with a whistling whoosh, drops off the screen, leaving nothing but blue sky and brown cliff edge on the television screen.

"Matthew?" Emily's voice is quiet, as if she doesn't want to startle him.

Matthew looks up, and his face contorts. "Emily." He grabs her arm and pulls her down onto the sofa with him. "Em." Dave doesn't know Matthew but the pain in his tone is clear. "I'm so sorry, Emily. I'm so sorry." Matthew has her in a tight hug with his head buried in her hair. "I'd never hurt you. I'd never hurt you."

Dave wants to snap that whether he wants to hurt her or not, he did, but that's not going to accomplish anything, so he just stands and watches. John is behind him, leaning against the wall, and Dave doesn't know if he's looking at the scene on the sofa or at Dave's back. As for Dave, he's watching Matthew sob against Emily, but he also wouldn't pass up an excuse to pop Neanderthal in the mouth, either. Not that that would win him any points with Emily, but at this point, Dave is willing to risk it.

"I'm no good," Matthew says. "You gotta give up on me."

Emily shakes her head and pulls back from the hug. "Listen to me." She puts her hands on either side of Matthew's face. "I am never, _ever_ giving up on you."

Matthew, eyes red, nose running, shakes his head. "I can't kick it, Em. I tried. I really did." He sucks in a shuddering breath. "You gotta give up on me."

Emily presses a kiss to his forehead. "I'll make a deal with you."

She waits until he's looking at her, and Dave is pretty sure she's a genius from the way she's playing this. "This is Dave. You remember me telling you about Dave?'

Matthew's eyes flick to Dave, and he looks boyish, like he has a secret. "Yeah." He smiles, and his eyes slide back to Emily. "I remember."

Dave thinks he would give his pension to know _exactly_ what Emily told Matthew about him.

"Dave has a friend who runs a program." Matthew is shaking his head, but Emily ignores it and continues on. "They have doctors and nurses on call and a place for you to sleep, and they'll let you stay as long as you need to."

"Can't afford it," Matthew mumbles.

"It won't cost you anything," she says. "You go to this program, and if they can't help you, if you try this one last time and you can't make it, I promise I'll give up on you." She's lying; of course she's lying, but he likes that she'll do what it takes.

Matthew is looking at Emily, both of them earnest and a little bit sad, both of them carrying their own guilt over the other.

Dave clears his throat. "Yeah. Gotta warn you though, Matthew. My friend Jimmy, he's a priest." Matthew lifts his gaze to meet Dave's eyes.

"Yeah?" His voice is low and slow, as though he understands Dave is trying to interact with him, that Dave is a friend, and he's not quite sure what the appropriate response is, but he desperately wants to do the right thing.

Smiling at Matthew, Dave puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Yeah, he loves to argue theology."

There's a slow dawn settling over Matthew's face. It's a mix of amusement and resignation; there's not a lot of hope there, but Dave figures that's okay. He doesn't need to hope, he just needs to try. "Okay." He looks back at Emily. "Okay. Tomorrow?"

Emily puts her hand on Matthew's cheek. "How about tonight?"

He looks uncertain for a minute, then slowly nods. "Yeah. Okay."

Dave pats his shoulder. "Get your things, then."

Matthew reaches across the sofa and drags his army jacket across to him and stands. "Ready."

John steps forward, "Matthew. Are you sure this is what you want?"

Emily turns to look at him, mouth open, expression incredulous.

Dave squares his shoulders and tells himself he can't punch the bastard no matter how much he wants to. "You got a better idea?" Dave's not a big guy, but he's never been afraid of a fight either. He knows his message is telegraphing to Neanderthal. _Give me a reason._ His expression and his body language and his very breath are singing at John. _Give me a reason and I will pound you into next week, I will clean your clock, I will rip your head off and take a shit down your neck. Just give me a reason._ But his mouth says, "Cause if you have a better idea, I'd think you'd have tried it before you went to sleep and left Emily alone with a detoxing drug addict, so he could bloody her nose and take her money and her car." He feels Emily reach out for Matthew, but he's not worried about him. The kid knows what he did; he even feels remorse for it. But Neanderthal? He's gotten off way too easy. "Matthew here has a good excuse...I've seen what drugs can do. But you?" Dave looks at John, feet to head, head to feet, then shrugs. "You've got no excuse. So, if right now, you've got a better idea? I would really love to hear it."

John looks at Dave for a moment, jaw clenched. Dave can see the same desire to reach out and punch in his eyes that Dave knows must be in his own, but there's also a fear there that Dave doesn't have. He knows his voice is derisive when he says, "That's what I thought," but he can't really help himself. As it is, he's patting himself on the back for the amount of restraint he's shown.

He turns to Emily and Matthew. "Ready?"

John stays in the living room as Matthew and Emily move toward the front door. He's staring at the television screen as Wylie Coyote receives an anvil to the head the last time Dave sees him.

By the time they get Matthew to Jimmy's, Matthew is having second thoughts, and Emily is incredible with him. She talks to him, holds him, offers to stay with him, "The way you stayed with me." Matthew finally signs himself in and asks Emily to stay for a few minutes. They're on the sofa in the common room, Matthew with his head in Emily's lap while she runs soothing fingers through his hair as though he were a sick and cranky child. Dave and Jimmy are watching from the nurses' station. They can't really hear what Emily is saying to Matthew, but he's calm again and peaceful, smiling occasionally and even laughing once.

Jimmy never takes his eyes off the two of them but says to Dave, "She's a very special woman."

Dave feels a little burst of pride, and a little bit of relief, that Jimmy sees it too. It's not just his dick that's got him so wrapped up in Emily Prentiss. He doesn't voice any of that though, he just says, "Yeah, she is."

The priest still doesn't look at him, but Dave can clearly see his small smile. "You gonna come to confession this week?"

Dave lifts an eyebrow towards him. "Why would I do that?"

Jimmy makes a little meaningless gesture towards the glass. "I'm doing you a favor. You owe me one."

Snorting, Dave shakes his head. "Let's not talk about who owes who what after that whole debacle with my boss calling his friend at the DEA on your behalf."

Lightly smacking Dave's upper arm, Jimmy laughs. "It was worth a shot."

Nodding at the glass, Dave concedes, "It never hurts to try."

"Take care of her," Jimmy says, suddenly sober again.

"Yeah," Dave agrees. "I will."

The eastern sky is beginning to lighten by the time he pulls into a parking place near Emily's building. They'll have to report her car stolen tomorrow, well, today.

He leans his head back against the headrest and turns to look at her. She's staring out the windshield, her profile illuminated by the digital glow from the dashboard. She has a classically beautiful silhouette, but he's not so far gone that he doesn't know he thinks everything about her is beautiful. As gorgeous as he thinks she is, as much as he wants her, right now he'd much rather get into her head than into her pants. She hasn't spoken since they left Jimmy's, and he'd been so busy trying not to fall asleep at the wheel, he hadn't noticed until they got here.

"You okay?"

Emily blinks, then blinks again, as if the sound of his voice has awakened her from some long and distant dream. "Yeah." That comes out scratchy so she clears her throat and says it again, "Yeah. I"m good."

She turns to him, the crinkle of her jacket seeming overly loud in the car's interior. "I really don't know how to thank you..."

He holds up a hand. 'You've already thanked me. Matthew thanked me. You thanked me again. I've been thanked." He's happy to see a small smile touch her lips. There's a part of him that wants to shake his head at himself, because he really is too old for this shit, for all of it, from staying up all night to falling in love, but here he's gone and done it anyway. "What time do you need to be at work? I'll come give you a lift."

Wearily, she closes her eyes. "Noon."

_Shit_. That's less than six hours and she's gotta be feeling worse than he is, because she's gone two nights with no sleep.

"But you don't have to drive me." Her tone is unbelievably tired, but she's showing no inclination to get out of the car. "I can get a cab."

"Emily. I'll pick you up at eleven-thirty." He's not trying to boss her around, but he's also not going to let her pride over-rule common sense. Besides, he wants to give her a ride just to see her again.

She turns her head and gives him a slight head-shake, accompanied by a smile. "I am too tired to argue. But if you're going to insist on doing that, then just sleep here."

Dave supposes if he weren't so tired he might want to analyze that a little more. And if she weren't so tired, he's pretty sure she never would have issued the invitation. It's a logical choice to make, and at this point, he's not sure he _can_ drive home. "Okay," he says and they both stumble out of the car and into the building.

The first set of stairs nearly kills him, and he says so. Emily gets the _so-tired-everything-is-funny_ giggles halfway up the second set, and he has to practically drag her the rest of the way. She's mostly just snickering by the time she gets her door unlocked, and she goes straight into the bathroom. He struggles out of his coat and kicks off his shoes and eyes her sofa. It's a little on the short side, but he's slept on worse.

Emily emerges from the bathroom in an over-sized t-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms with what appears to be red reindeer dancing across them. "Here," she says, slapping a plastic rectangle into his hand.

"What?" He's confused for a second, until he sees it's an unopened toothbrush.

"One of the Ambassador's house rules. Always have one or more unopened toothbrushes in case of unexpected guests." She snorts. "No talks about birth control, but hey, we have dental hygiene covered." She starts giggling again, and Dave shakes his head and goes to brush his teeth.

When he comes out of the bathroom, instead of finding a pillow and blanket on the sofa as he expected, he finds Emily on one side of the bed with the covers turned back on the other. Her eyes are barely open, but she makes an effort to pat the empty space on the mattress beside her, even if it's really something more like a fish out of water having a seizure than a graceful invitation.

_So tired,_ he thinks as he lays down beside her. Then she's snuggled up against him, her head on his shoulder and her arm across his chest, and he thinks, _So grateful,_ before he stops thinking all together and just sleeps.

"Fuck!"

He startles awake, for a minute unsure of where he is, then he sees Emily sitting up in bed beside him and he remembers the previous night.

"It's eleven-twenty," she says, shooting out of bed and into the bathroom.

Dave takes stock; he's tired and for some reason he's sore, but he's still smiling when he rolls off the mattress and begins making coffee.

He gets her to the diner at 11:59. "What time are you off?" he asks as she unbuckles.

"Nine," she answers, leaning over and kissing him on the cheek.

His cheek is warm and a little tingly. "I'll be here." He takes her answering smile with him when he leaves.

He can't get his buddy with the downtown force to take the stolen car report from him over the phone. But he does agree to go see Emily at the diner.

"He was really nice," she tells him as he drives her home. "He took the report and didn't ask if I knew who took it, thank God." She slides a look in his direction. "Or thank you, as the case may be. I'm not sure if Matthew honestly didn't remember where he put it or if the dealer took the keys as soon as he zoned out. But at least now I can file a claim with my insurance company. I can do that tomorrow."

"Yeah, do that as soon as you can." He's trying to be good, trying to help without taking over. He has to fight the way he was raised sometimes, has to remember not all women want to be rescued, not every problem needs a man's touch. If he were to do that in Emily's case, he thinks it would be because she's Emily and not because she's a woman, but that's just one of those things that can't be explained, feminist or not.

"Come on up," she says when they arrive at her place. Despite his best intentions he'd fallen asleep this afternoon, and he finds the idea of another hour or two in Emily's company appealing to an amazing degree, so he doesn't hesitate to follow her.

He sits on her sofa while she opens the bottle of Merlot. His gaze moves to the bed, covers tumbled and pillows rumpled and he thinks, _I slept there. Emily and I slept there together._ The thought warms him, makes it easier to hope for things, bigger things, brighter things, when a little bit of time has passed.

The wine glasses are high quality, delicate, but not exactly fragile. He'd be willing to bet they were a gift from her mother or some other relative of means. The wine itself is cheap and tastes it, but he knew that before he ever took a sip. However, good wine is not the point, at least not tonight. Tonight it's just about being with her, away from the diner, away from Matthew and John, just making sure she's okay.

But, somehow, between the first glass of wine and the second, he finds himself with a lap full of Emily Prentiss.

He's not even sure how it happened. It certainly wasn't the plan, but she'd looked up at him as she was refilling his glass and her eyes had been wide and dark and her smile had been soft and she'd leaned forward and kissed him. God help him, he hadn't even thought twice, he'd kissed her back. One kiss had turned into two and two had turned into three, building on each other, the way one note builds on another, until there's a prelude, a suite, a symphony.

And now she's straddling him and they're kissing like kissing is breathing, like each other's mouth is air. And his world is narrowed to this, to her mouth, her tongue, her lips. The curve of her skull under his palm, the silk of her hair between his fingers, the heady taste of wine on her tongue.

It's when she raises up and tugs her blouse from her pants that he remembers this isn't a good idea right now.  
"Emily," he breathes against her mouth.

She hums and keeps on kissing him, her hands busily working the buttons of her shirt open. Dave really knows he should stop, but she _tastes_ so good and she _feels_ so good and he's wanted her since the moment he first set eyes on her. It's when she leans back just a little, trying to shrug out of her shirt, that he becomes aware of the urgent need to stop _right now._

"Emily," he repeats, grasping her arms and thereby preventing her from sliding the blouse off her shoulders. "Stop."

"What? Why?" Her breathing is labored, the rise and fall of her breasts drawing his attention. He pulls the edges of her shirt together to keep himself from getting distracted by the curves that crest above her simple cotton bra, by the valley in between. Her eyes are dark and wide and her mouth is open slightly and her lips are moist and he really, really wants to kiss her again. Instead, he slides his hand across her cheek and into her hair, his thumb drawing tiny lines against her skin.

"You're…we can't do this," he says slowly, his voice a little rough with want.

"Oh." Her breath blows across his face. "Yes, we can," she disagrees, leaning down to mouth at his chin. "I promise we can. But if you need lessons, I'm more than happy to show you how."

She's warm and she's soft and obviously willing, and he doesn't _want_ to stop, but he also doesn't want this to end badly. If he's honest, he doesn't want this to end at all, and it's that thought that makes him gently push against her shoulder. "Em," he says again, trying for serious, trying to not pay too much attention to the press of her body against his erection. "Listen."

Sighing, she sits back a little, decreasing the contact between their upper bodies, but increasing the pressure further south. "Dave," she whines, "what's the matter?"

"You've had a rough few days." He smoothes her hair back with gentle fingers. "It's been emotional, and I don't want you to do something you're not ready for just because you're reacting to all that."

She blinks at him several times. "Dave." There's a flush staining her cheeks but he can't tell if it's from embarrassment or arousal, and he doesn't care, because whichever, it's charming. "I want this. I want you." She settles herself a little more firmly into his lap and there's no way in hell he can stop the groan he gives in reaction. "And you want me. It's as simple as that."

"God, I wish it was that simple." He settles his hands on her hips.

"It can be that simple. Just let it be that simple." She slides against him, wrapping her arms around his neck, her breasts conveniently located within easy reach of his mouth, and he's really having to grab for why it's a good idea to stop.

Later, he'll wonder how he managed, but somehow he does. "Listen," he says again.

She pulls back with an expression he can't define, something between impatience and disgust, and looks at him expectantly.

"Emily, I want you."

The impatience and expectation melt off of her face and her expression softens. "I want you, too."

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then opens them again. "You want me right now, but is it for the right reason?"

Emily takes his hand, pressing it against her breast, arching into his palm. "I want you because I want you. That's the only reason."

Dave shakes his head and somehow manages to move his hand from her breast back to her hip. "It's been an emotional few days for you. This could be left over adrenaline or stress relief or...or gratitude and I-"

"Don't try this paternalistic bullshit on me, Rossi." Her words are harsh but her mouth is soft as she kisses his ear.

"I'm not. Really." He groans as she sucks his earlobe between her lips. Her mouth is warm and wet and he's thinking about how it would feel on other parts of his body. "Stop that," he says, equal parts exasperated and out of his mind with lust. "Listen to me," he pleads.

Sighing, she sits back and looks at him, and fuck, she is the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen.

He looks at her, cups her cheek, makes sure he has her attention, because he wants her to _hear_ what he has to say. "I want more from you than one night." He watches as that sinks in, as her eyes get just a little wider and the flush gets a just little darker. "So, I don't want to take any chances here. If this isn't what you want, if it isn't what you're ready for now, then I'd rather wait until it's right, rather than rushing into something that you might regret."

"Oh, Dave." Her voice is husky as her fingers stroke through the hairs at the back of his neck. "I want more, too. I was ready for this before the last few days…I was ready for this before you went away." She turns her head and lays her lips gently against his.

He returns the kiss. He can't not. Her lips are soft and her mouth opens easily under his, but it's not the same heat that was there a few minutes ago. It's gentler, more about feeling than sensation, more about promise than passion. For all that, it curls his toes and makes it a little hard to breathe.

When she breaks the kiss and rests her forehead against his, he takes a moment to breathe her in, the floral scent of her shampoo and soap, the slight smell of sweat and underneath that the smell of her arousal. "Still," he says and then has to clear his throat. "I'd feel better if you'd let this…let things with Matthew settle and see how you feel in a few weeks."

"I'm going to feel the same way," she breathes but she doesn't sound nearly as put out as she had before.

Dave nods. "I hope so. But just to be sure."

"All right," she sighs and kisses him one last time, then climbs off his lap. She begins buttoning her shirt and he reaches out a hand and touches the skin at the base of her throat, slides a finger down to the valley between her breasts, eyes drinking her in.

"I must be out of my mind," he says solemnly.

"That's my theory," she smiles, pushing his hand out of the way to finish buttoning the blouse.

There's a serial arsonist in Texas, and Dave's on a plane to the Dallas-Fort Worth Airport Monday afternoon. But this time he has her number and calls to leave his own message. He concentrates on the case instead of Emily, tries not to think about her moving through her days, waking up in her bed, walking to campus, working on her thesis. He tries not to be the lovesick fool he knows he is.

It's late when he gets back to his hotel room Friday, and he realizes she'd just be getting home from her shift at Rocky's, so he doesn't fight it, he just dials.

She answers on the first ring, and he has to laugh. "Hey. Expecting a call?"

"Hey." Her voice is husky and sexy and God, he misses her. "Just hoping for one."

"Really?" he asks. "Anybody special?"

"Yeah, there's this guy..." she sighs, and he hears rustling in the background and imagines her in her bed, dark hair against the pillow. "He's a great guy. He's funny and smart and he's helped me out a lot and I really, really like him."

"Yeah?" he asks, grinning.

"Yeah," she says. "But he seems to be having trouble believing that, and I sort of want to hit him over the head with a brick."

"Well," he drawls, "I bet any guy who really, really, _really_ likes you already feels like they got hit over the head with a brick."

She laughs then and he just smiles wider. He wants to tell her he misses her. He wants to tell her he loves her, but he's not going to, not on the phone, not with thousands of miles between them.

He kicks off his shoes, and slides down on the pillow, turns out the light and imagines Emily in the bed next to him as he listens to her voice. "Dave?"

"Yeah?"

"Sometimes I think..." She hesitates, sounding a little shy, maybe a little embarrassed. "I get really freaked out when I think about what would have happened if you hadn't come in with Agent Hotchner that night. What if you'd come in on a Tuesday instead of a Friday or you'd sat at one of Dottie's tables instead of mine?"

"Oh, well, we still would have met," he says with assurance.

"Oh, yeah?" He can almost hear the eyebrows raise back in DC.

"Sure. It might have taken a while, but we would've met. I'd probably have kept on getting married and divorced and you'd have had horrible dating luck and gotten a cat or something." He rolls to his side and pitches his voice a little lower. "But then, one day you'd have shown up in Max's office at the BAU, some hotshot agent he couldn't wait to bring into the unit. And I'd have taken one look at you and fallen at your feet."

When she laughs, he forgets what he does for a living, he forgets he's fifteen years older than she is, he forgets they're going to call him a cradle robber and a dirty old man...all he remembers is every good thing about the world.

"I kind of like the idea of that." He can still hear the laugh in her voice, and he can't wait to kiss her again.

"Hmmm, yeah. Instead you fell at mine."

The noise she makes is indignant, but he's not going to go as far as to call it a screech. That may be only because he _is_ lovesick.

"I did not." She enunciates every word for emphasis. "You were an egotistical jerk because someone other than you was the center of attention."

"Prentiss. You knew my middle name. I never give out my full name at those classroom talks." He's bluffing. He doesn't really know if he ever has or not.

The lengthy pause tells him he's hit pay dirt. When she finally speaks, he wishes he could be there to see the blush he knows is on her face. "You were very..." She clears her throat. "You were interesting, and I wanted to know more about you."

"You thought I was hot, and you wanted to do me right away."

"You..." she huffs. "Tell me again why I like you?"

"No accounting for taste, I guess." He's still smiling, and even in the silence, he can hear that she's smiling too. "How was work tonight?"

It takes them two more weeks to catch the guy, and he drives straight from the airport to Rocky's. It's Saturday night and two weeks before Christmas, so there are a dozen wreaths around the dining room and garland is hanging from every available surface. The music is popular Christmas songs. and the place is packed, except, miraculously, his table. It is open and waiting.

Emily is taking a table of twelve's order, her back is to him when he comes in. He shrugs out of his overcoat and drapes it across the seat of his table. Dottie nods at him and stops to watch. Hector has caught sight of him and, laughing, has called Willie out from the kitchen. Emily turns and sees the two men standing there, grinning and says, "What?"

Willie shakes his head. "I don't know what kind of a Fed you're going to be, girl. You don't even check out your surroundings."

Her brow furrows, but she takes a slow turn around and finally sees Dave standing there. When she shrieks and throws herself at him, he gladly catches her to the applause of both staff and customers.

It's later, almost closing time, and they're sharing the same side of the booth, when she hands him an envelope that's a little frayed at the edges and has a few stray pencil marks on it. "I've, uh, been carrying it in my purse for a while," she says apologetically.

He opens it and pulls out several pieces of colored paper and printed cardstock. They are tickets. A pair of tickets to the opera, a gift certificate for two tickets to the movies, tickets to the symphony, even two tickets to a Redskins football game in two weeks and two tickets to the Washington Wizards in February. "What are these?" He quirks an eyebrow. "Early Christmas?"

"No." She shakes her head. "They are me, asking you out." She says this like he's thick.

"Hmmm." It's taking everything he has not to grin, but he manages. "Like as a thank you?"

She squints at him, "No. Like dates."

"So," he shuffles through quickly and picks up the tickets to the opera. "Our first date is _Amahl and the Night Visitors_ on the 22nd?"

Emily looks exasperated, as though this is not going at all the way she wanted and she knows he's yanking her chain and she is going to figure out a way to make him pay. "If that's what you want." She crosses her arms over her chest, and he tries not to notice how that pushes her breasts up and makes them strain against her tuxedo shirt.

He drops the tickets to the opera and holds out his hand. She looks at him for a moment, then uncrosses her arms and puts one of her hands in his. Slowly, deliberately, he runs his thumb over her knuckles. "What I want, Emily Prentiss is for you to come home with me now, tonight."

He brings her hand to his mouth and kisses it softly. "What I want is to be with you, as much as school and your thesis and your job allow. I don't want to get in the way of any of that." He gives a half smile. "There's my job too. But I'm not going to let it get in the way of me being with you." He tugs her a little closer. "I can always take early retirement and write that book Max is always nagging me to write."

She's taking in every word and her eyes are a little moist and her mouth is trembling very slightly, but he knows she's not going to cry. Not here, not now, so he finishes what he has to say. "I want you to come home with me tonight. I want you to come home with me whenever you can, as much as you can. And one day, when you're sure you want to, I want you to stay." He looks at her, putting everything out there, letting her see it all. Later tonight, when she's lying in his arms, he will say the words, when he can say them in her ear, against her lips, against her neck, against her heart. But right now, she needs to see it in his eyes.

He was wrong about one thing though.

Not a lot wrong, but a little wrong, because one tear does escape. It rolls down her cheek but she doesn't bother to wipe it away; she just nods and says, "I want that, too."

He cups his hand over her cheek and uses his thumb to wipe the tear away. Just for a minute, he rests his forehead against hers, soaking in the moment: the Christmas music playing in the background, Hector and Willie arguing over ham versus turkey for Christmas dinner, the feel of Emily's cheek under his hand, the smell of her perfume, the warmth of her skin. Briefly, he wonders if he'll ever be as happy as he is in this moment.

But then Emily smiles at him, leaning forward and touching her lips to his and he knows this is only the beginning.

Fin


End file.
